Needlebrake Burning
by fluidstatic
Summary: Fran is content, until she is faced with a great responsibility ... and a frightening revelation. The story of Fran's exodus from Eruyt. Rating may be subject to change.
1. Kr'Lanain

**Needlebrake Burning**

Chapter 1: Kr'Lanain

_(Watermoon, 653 OV)_

The wood flourished in her fertility that spring. The trillium bloomed in waves, pink and white both, their wide leaves soaking in the humidity. The holly grew thick, and the ash trees revived, tinted here and there with violet flowers like the eggs of tiny birds. All through the underbrush, sparrows flirted and courted.

In the Vieran village of Eruyt, the women danced.

Hymns, rhymes, lore and legends spilled from smiling mouths all along the path, from the fane itself to the mouth of the needlebrake. In all of the bowers and kitchens, the younger women made chains from flowers and leaves, stringing them out the windows and twining them in their hair as prayers for _Tr'Liith,_ The Wood. Salve-makers gathered leaves and budding flowers for their holy tinctures, as the priestesses collected elderflowers and hawthorn leaves for their altars.

And the wood-warders, in this time of fertility and peace, began to talk amongst themselves furtively, giggling.

"_Kr'Lanain_ is assembling again. It's been so long."

"_Kr'Lanain_? Has it been fifty years already?"

"The time, she flies, when the wood pines for children. Oh, I'd give my finest bow to be chosen."

"Only a bow, sister? _Te, te,_ you jest. I'd give my arm."

"_Aii, Tr'Liith._ We all would, sister."

Laughter, teasing, and gossip ran along the target grounds, and whispered wagers were made behind the screens along the path. All through Eruyt, prayers were raised, gossip ran like springwater, and all the village anticipated the choice of the next mating pair.

Childbearing women are rare and sacred here. A mere thirteen are born in each generation, as the wood long ago dictated would be so. Seeding Viera, those who fertilize the bearing women, are less rare. Quick and lithe, with broad thighs and long bodies suited for feats of athleticism and strength, they are trained often as warders and guards, sentinels of the village against the Humes and other undesirables -- the _Bal'thjr -- _of the outside world.

To defend the wood is high honor to a wood-warder, and to propagate her children is the highest honor of all.

In spring, once every fifty years, the counsel of Kr'Lanain assembles before the priestess of the village and pairs off each childbearing Viera with a proper seeding partner, according to the childbearer's wishes.

This watermoon, the joy inherent in this rite is palpable. A rash of fever came to Golmore when the thirteen bearing women of their generation were little more than kits; Five of the poor girls caught the strain, and when they recovered they were sterile, never to bleed at the new moon, never to bear kits. But now the remaining eight are to be wed, and a new generation will be born.

* * *

Mjrn was overjoyed at the thought of kits in the village.

"Kr'Lanain is meeting today, F'ran. I can scarcely believe it. And then, next spring there will be a whole run of kits, just born . . ."

F'ran did not reply. Instead she plucked an orange from the little tree beside her and began to peel it.

Mjrn tapped her foot, exasperated at her sister's lack of enthusiasm for the idea.

"When Holymoon comes, and the wedding is performed, Oh how I will weep. I've never seen a wedding… not a formal one at the fane."

"Warders marry their charges all the time," F'ran murmured, splitting the orange in half and slipping a section into her mouth.

"They only pledge fidelity. They may be in love, but to be wed! Oh, F'ran, what a dream, to be truly wed, with the wood's blessing!"

F'ran smiled, and sectioned the rest of the orange contemplatively.

"Have you a love for yourself, Mjrn? or is it the pollen on the wind that makes you sentimental?"

"_Aii!"_ Mjrn blushed and twitched her ears in syncopation, abashed at the teasing.

Fran blinked in amusement, and Mjrn continued.

"Seven of the eight bearers have already chosen their brides. You know one of the seeders, I am told. Mjith is lucky to be chosen, _Eih,_ F'ran?"

F'ran nodded. Ajrn and Mjith had been lovers for ten years, and soon they would be wed. Mjith was right to be proud of Ajrn, flush with beauty, her lovely toffee-colored face bright with joy. Mjith would retire her post at the fane awhile, to be at her darling's side when they bore kits together at last.

Mjrn gazed at the patch of trillium by her knee and twitched her nose thoughtfully.

"But Djran… Pretty, dark, sweet Djran. She is very shy, and hasn't been bold enough to make her choice. I am told she has spoken to the Kr'Lanain about her wishes for a love. They may decide to choose for her."

F'ran nodded distractedly and picked a bit of orange peel from beneath her fingernail.

"What of you, F'ran? Have you a love?"

F'ran drew back a fraction and gawked.

"_Te, te!_ Mjrn. What a thing to ask."

"You asked me first."

"In jest, Mjrn. _Aii,_ in jest."

Mjrn giggled affectionately, but did not press the issue further.

_I have no love. I am a warder, not a wife, _F'ran thought, finishing her orange and burying the seeds and peel in a patch of loamy earth near her feet.

"I would go to the target field awhile. You will tell Jote where I am?"

Mjrn nodded. "Of course."

Jote emerged from the fane then, on silent feet, as if from the air itself.

"F'ran. If you would stay a while, I have a matter to discuss with you."

F'ran turned and nodded, surprised to see Jote this early in the afternoon on such an important day. "_Eih_, my sister."

Mjrn piped up, echoing her thoughts plainly.

"Is _Kr'lanain_ adjourned already, my sister?"

Jote nodded solemnly. "The brides have made our job simple. Blessings have been imparted to each pairing, and the wedding shall be at Holymoon, as it always has been."

She turned to F'ran.

"It is a sacred day for us, F'ran. You have been chosen."

F'ran blinked twice and twitched her nose carefully, scenting for jest.

"I do not understand."

"Djran informs us that she has longed for you many a year now. We all agree you are the best match for her; You are stronger and quicker than your contemporaries in battle, and your visions of future and present have never failed you. You would make a fine seeding partner. I have always known this, and the others of the counsel heartily agree."

Mjrn's face lit, like a water lily in a ray of sunlight.

"Tr'Liith be praised… My beautiful sister, a wife!"

F'ran felt something akin to nausea sink over her, and her skin chilled. She blinked languidly to mask the feeling of impendent terror and shook her head.

"It is an honor to be chosen, this is true. But I will not force Djran into marriage if she does not wish it."

Jote's nose twitched, scenting her sister's apprehension.

"Do not be troubled for her. As I said before, her eye and heart have been upon you for quite some time."

F'ran felt her skin rise in gooseflesh, though the afternoon was mild.

"I was unaware."

Mjrn's smile was like a beacon.

"She is shy and reticent, like you. Of course you did not know; why would she tell you?"

F'ran blinked at her fingernails; they smelled of oranges.

"It would have been courteous of her. . ."

She trailed off, uncertain. What would she have done, had she known?

Mjrn shook her head knowingly. "Courtesy in love? How very like you to think this way, sister."

F'ran blinked at her and spoke in a mild, affectionate scold.

"And you, who have never had a love, speak as though you know the matter well?"

Jote twitched one ear in amusement. "My sisters, who jest and tease and bicker. How I adore them."

She held out her arms to F'ran.

"Let me embrace you, F'ran. My warder-kin, a seeding wife… My heart is full for you."

F'ran got to her feet and embraced her sister, and the vision came, with pain clenching in her abdomen.

_Thorns in the underbrush, flames in the trees._

_Screaming, and the smell of parched grass._

_Sorrow in the wind, hate in the earth._

_Run, fleet archer, fly! Should you fall,_

_The wood will devour you . . ._

F'ran recoiled; Jote rotated her ears forward in interest and concern.

"You have seen something?"

"I see… I smell… the needlebrake. It is burning."

Jote frowned and scented the air for a moment.

"I sense no ill… But, perhaps a premonition I have yet to receive has found you…"

She turned away.

"I shall scry, and see what Tr'Liith would bid me do. Be at ease, F'ran."

F'ran caught her breath and nodded, blinking back the remains of the vision with a slight shiver.

"You should visit Djran, my sister," Mjrn said gently. "She would surely take well to your company in this beautiful weather, and perhaps her company will soothe you."

F'ran felt she might be ill, but nodded once again.

"I shall," she said faintly, and rose from the wall beside the fane, turning South toward the huts in the trees beyond.


	2. Fo'e

_(A/N: I forgot to make note of this for chapter 1, but Djran is pronounced DYUR-an, Mjith is MYEETH, and Ajrn is AIRN.)_

**Chapter 2: **_**Fo'e**_

F'ran climbed the winding path leading to Djran's hut, nestled among the branches of a large cypress near the center of the village. She held a basket full of limes and oranges in both hands, decorated with the first of the lilac blossoms that had sprung up around the fane.

"She likes oranges, and the little firm limes that grow around the fountain this time of year. Or so I am told," her sparring partner had said not the week before, amid snatches of gossip about the lovely bride. F'ran had not thought to listen carefully, too intent on her bow, but now she was pleased she had remembered this little snatch of information. It would aid her in befriending her new beloved.

_How odd that I need to acquaint myself with someone who will so soon be my wife, _she thought, brushing a strand of hair from her face and studying the pretty sigil carved onto the front door of Djran's tree-bower. It was a rose, surrounded by a ring of leaves, indicating Djran's childbearing status and independence from her family.

Since both her hands were occupied with the basket of fruit and she could not knock, F'ran called through the open window into the kitchen, a little nervously.

"Djran, _Fo'e_?"

It was the first time she had used the word – a pet name between lovers, meaning 'my heart' – and it seemed to stick to her teeth.

Djran's voice drifted from somewhere within the hut. "F'ran? _Tr'liith,_ I had not expected you. Come in, darling."

F'ran flicked an ear, abashed at being called this by someone she barely knew.

"I would, sister, only…"

F'ran glanced regretfully at the large basket in her hands that now prevented her from entering the house; it suddenly seemed a terribly extravagant, almost ridiculous gift.

Djran appeared at the window then. Her hair bounced in a feathery curling cloud about her dark face, and her golden eyes regarded the basket F'ran held with pure delight.

"_Aii, _how lovely, F'ran. It must be heavy. I will get the door…"

They spent the afternoon in pleasant conversation. As they chatted, F'ran helped her slice the limes and put them in jars with honey, to be preserved. Djran spoke of little domestic chores, like gathering heather and making brooms out of it, with real pleasure and contentment. F'ran liked listening to her, and spoke little of her own interests, preferring to watch Djran's unusually small hands flit from the lime basket to the knife to the jar and back again.

When the limes had all been preserved and tucked away, Djran turned away from the counter.

"F'ran, _Fo'e_…" – That word again – "Do you know any love songs?"

F'ran frowned contemplatively. "I do not, it seems."

Djran brushed a strand of hair out of her face nervously. "Might I teach you one?"

F'ran smiled in spite of herself at Djran's affectionate glance.

_She truly does care for me… _

"_Eih,_ Djran, of course. I would be pleased."

Djran blinked a few times, shy and sincere, and began to sing in a flutelike voice.

_A' nan friith, sjr ba'anan, I am yours, sweet sister,_

_Nin fo'e a tr' my heart you sing._

_Nin fo'e a tr'jn, ka'sjr,in my heart you sing, how sweetly,_

_Cil tur a'n Liith. tchuc a, fo' the wood smiles. Kiss me, my heart._

_Fo'e, Fo'e, nin b'lhai,My heart, my heart, it is you I love._

_Tchuc a, ei tr'liith sa' me beneath the golden boughs._

_Sjr a' nin, sjor cin gal'ha,You are mine, forget me not. _

_Fo'e, nin b' heart, it is you I love._

F'ran closed her eyes and hummed a few lines of the melody to herself, enjoying the simple tune. "_Fo'e, nin b'lhai_," she sang, under her breath.

She heard Djran take a step toward her, and felt a strand of hair being brushed off her forehead.

"_Nin b'lhai, F'ran,_" Djran said, in a tender voice.

F'ran opened her eyes, looked down at her betrothed – pretty, dark, sweet Djran – and drew the girl into her arms.

Djran cared for her so. F'ran felt it was only right to put in an effort, even if she did not feel as ardently. The girl smelled of dark, moist earth and roasted breadfruit. It was a good scent, a comforting scent. F'ran pressed her nose into Djran's hair and smiled as the girl turned to water in her arms. She might just get used to this strange business of being loved, eventually.

A sharp, trilling battle call from the path far below the window broke F'ran out of her thoughts. She dashed to the window, on high alert.

Mjith and Ajrn stood on the path far below the bower, hand-in-hand, giggling like kits. F'ran exhaled, relieved and a little embarrassed.

"Such a pretty sight, you and your darling, F'ran!" Mjith was laughing fit to burst.

F'ran twitched both ears in amusement; Their joy was contagious.

"_Eih_, sister. You and yours are lovely too. But _aii,_ you come to spy on poor Djran! You wish to fight me for her, Mjith?"

Djran came to the window and joined in the teasing. "Ajrn, my sister! Your _fo'e _strays to my bower. Shall we trade?"

Ajrn grinned. "_Aii,_ no, my sister. I thank you, but F'ran is far too skinny for my taste."

F'ran hissed playfully in protest. Laughing, Djran leaned out the window and plucked a basket from its hook beneath the windowpane.

"We come down to join you, _eih?_ I need to collect a basket of lotuses before the sunset closes them."

F'ran followed Djran out the door and down the ramp to the path. At the crossroad by the fountain, Ajrn and Mjith shared a small, cheerful kiss, and Ajrn laid her cheek to her bride's shoulder. "You will forgive me, _fo'e_, for returning to the bower without you? The sun, she is hot, and I am tired."

Mjith shook her head. "_Te, te,_ darling. Go. I will bring coerltooth weed for supper, _Eih_?"

Ajrn nodded, touched her nose to Mjith's affectionately, and walked away toward a stand of birch trees in the distance, humming to herself.

Djran hooked her basket onto her wrist and turned to F'ran, smiling. There was a strange look in her eyes, and F'ran thought she smelled a hint of bitterness, but when she twitched her nose to confirm the scent, it was gone.

"F'ran, _fo'e,_ I will leave you and Mjith to your warder-chat, _eih_? I am dull company when there is talk of bows and kickboxing."

F'ran smiled. "As it should be. Our war-talk surely tires your lovely ears." The flattering words felt foreign, as she seemed to be having trouble putting the proper teasing affection into them; regardless, Djran smiled in return.

"_Aii_, F'ran, please. Your name suits you. Strong you are, and so it is good that you speak of the art of strength. Sit, sisters, and talk. Tomorrow I will see you again?"

Her eyes gleamed hopefully. F'ran nodded.

"Of course, Djran. You will see me again, and again after. Do not worry, _fo'e_."

Inexplicably, hearing this seemed to break some sort of wall in Djran, and she threw her arms around F'ran with a little cry.

"_Fo'e! Nin b'lhai,"_ she whimpered, and kissed F'ran full on the mouth feverishly.

F'ran caught her, startled, and then the vision came like a stone out of the sky.

_Blood beneath fingernails, flames in the trees._

_She is weeping. She is screaming._

_This is not love, but darkness. _

_Run into the light!_

_Fly, fleet archer! Should you fall,_

_The wood will devour you . . ._

F'ran kissed Djran, deeper, harder, tried to will away the vision, but the smell of breadfruit was beginning to sicken her, and Djran's lips had an odd texture, like the flesh of a nectarine. Too smooth, too soft, altogether wrong. And now she felt she was going to be ill…

Djran broke the kiss and blushed. F'ran steadied herself with difficulty.

"I . . . I must go. The sun is lower in the sky than I had thought, and there are lotuses to gather."

F'ran nodded, and touched Djran's cheek in an attempt at affection. Her head was spinning. The urge to retch had passed, but she felt faint and panicky, and her heart was fluttering in her chest like an injured bird.

As Djran moved away down the path toward one of the lotus ponds, Mjith flicked her ears at F'ran, her eyes glittering conspiratorially.

"_A' liith,_ F'ran! I'd crop my hair and burn it for a kiss like that!"

F'ran scowled, shaken to the bone. The smile fled from Mjith's eyes immediately.

"_Aii,_ sister, your sour countenance grieves me. I meant no offense."

F'ran did not reply, but twitched her ears, listening for trouble and trying to calm herself.

As a distraction, she watched Djran walk by, carrying a basket of lotus flowers in her arms. The girl was the crown jewel of Eruyt, beautiful in her fertility; Why did terrible visions choke F'ran's senses at the touch of her mouth?

Djran's hips swayed; F'ran felt nothing. Her breasts bounced gently; F'ran felt nothing. Her leg extended gracefully behind her, and her full lips parted slightly in concentration as she leaned over the nearest pond, reaching for a particularly large blossom floating in the center; F'ran felt nothing.

Mjith reached for her friend's hand.

"_Te, te te,_ my sister. You are ill at ease, I know, for betrothal is not something to take lightly. But please, _ba'anan,_ enjoy her. She loves you. _Fo'e nin b'lhai,_ she sings to you. Treat her well."

F'ran nodded mutely and rose from the wall.

"I have target practice, and do not wish to be late, sister. You will excuse me."

"_Eih,_ F'ran. May your aim be steady, sister."

Ears twitching, still listening for the crackle of wildfire, F'ran walked down the path toward the target field. Should someone come to set the needlebrake burning, she would be ready.


	3. Bal'thjr

_(A/N: Bal'thjr is pronounced BALTH-yur. See my fic "Christening the Pirate" for more on this._

_Additionally, Sjit is pronounced SYEET._)

**Chapter 3: Bal'thjr**

_(Aeromoon, 653 OV)_

Weeks passed. F'ran visited Djran's bower every day, always with a gift; a magnolia for her hair one day, a cane of bamboo carved into a flute the next. She spent a week gathering particularly handsome feathers and made them into a fan, and once, though her talent for music was scarce, she wrote a little song.

Djran accepted each gift with radiant gratitude, and kissed F'ran with more tenderness by the day. In truth, she had begun to enjoy the affection. "_Fo'e_" came from her lips easily now, but she did not feel it in the center of her chest, where she knew she should. This did not trouble her terribly. Surely, once they were wed, her affection and desire would blossom.

Would they not?

One particularly hot day, F'ran found that the camellia tree outside her bower had bloomed to its fullest, the golden stamens in the center of each bright pink blossom thick with pollen. She had always loathed the scent of these flowers, too sweet and yet with a hint of bitterness, like the skin of a walnut – but today she smiled to see them flourish. She'd heard Djran say the day before that she adored pink camellias; when she returned from the day's practice she would collect some for a bouquet.

F'ran's aim was as sure as ever that day. Her bow, Perseus, sang a crisp noteevery time she snapped the string, and every arrow she fired hit its mark with ease. _The sound of arrow striking tree trunk is a satisfying one,_ she mused, chattering her teeth with satisfaction at each true hit of the marks on the trees. _Thwunk. Thwunk._ She felt her eyes dilating with the excitement of battle-focus as she moved from target to target; first the remains of a dead oak, then a slimmer birch, down to a little juniper, until she was loosing arrows into the desiccated trunks of dying aspens, slips of trees barely thick enough to hold their own against a passing breeze.

When her quiver of practice arrows was empty, she went looking for Mjith. She felt jangly, her skin humming with electricity. She needed to spar, to kick, to hone her muscles and sweat out her excitement. There was no one better to spar with than tall, strong, clever Mjith, who boxed with grace and speed, like a dancer.

Halfway across the target field, F'ran encountered Sjit, another archer; the woman was crouched behind a wooden screen, restringing her bow.

"Sjit, my sister, you will have seen Mjith nearby?"

Sjit looked up from her bow and smiled.

"_Eih,_ sister. I believe..."

She froze and turned her nose into the wind; her round black eyes widened a fraction.

"_A'liith_."

F'ran sniffed. Camellias, the comforting constancy of evergreen pitch, a faint passing whiff of malboro's blood in the needlebrake... and beneath these, a faint whisper of a scent she could not immediately place; salt and metal, and burning cloth...

Humes... bearing fire.

_They are here._

She turned to Sjit and drew a deep breath; as Sjit leapt to her feet F'ran let out a trilling call-to-arms.

"_Trrrrrrrrrrrriii, yii yii yii yii yii!"_

Within seconds, warders were jogging out into the field from every direction, bows and staves at the ready.

"_F'ran, ba'anan, dr' seth?"_

"_F'ran! Ka mjr at!"_

She shouted back to them.

"_Ka Tchis! Hjum Bal'thjr e'!"_

_We fight! The Hume invaders come!_

A war cry rose from fifty Vieran throats, and the unit fell into formation, ready and swift. As F'ran dashed through the south copse toward the needlebrake, arrow already to the string of her bow, she caught a hint of breadfruit on the breeze and heard a cry from one of the houses above her.

"_F'ran! B'lhai! Tchis se ka'voth!"_

_Fight for us all..._ Good, pretty Djran.

As F'ran ran out of the village into the mouth of the needlebrake, a vision came to her.

_Beyond the trees a fire burns that cannot be quenched!_

_Hush, fleet archer, stay your bow, _

_For your kindred have come at last._

_You long for the mystery. Longing is life!_

_The flame of freedom sings on the wind._

_Fly into fire, and burn!_

In the murky haze of her mind's eye, she saw the fire again; it flowered beyond the wood, an inferno devouring the entire world. She shook herself and ran farther into the jungle, sniffing for the telltale sharpness of sweat and iron.

Then she heard the heavy clumsy footsteps of a Hume approaching, and ducked behind a thick bank of junipers for cover. The Hume's noisy feet clomped nearer, and she twitched her ears in annoyance at the commotion. After a moment, Sjit and Mjith joined her; she signaled to them in rapid finger signs.

_Left and behind the trees; keep behind me. Stay low. _

Mjith responded with finger signs of her own.

_We ambush. I should kick face? _

F'ran nodded and held up her hand. Wait… wait…

Sjit clicked her teeth in anticipation.

The Hume came into view then and F'ran dropped out of the tree like a cat, her comrades swooping in behind her like dark fire, silent and swift.

The three of them covered the fifty meters between their hideout and the Hume in about five seconds. Sjit darted one way, hissing to draw his attention, and F'ran went the other, muscles tense, ready and eager to wrestle the stinking _Bal'thjr_ to the ground should the need arise.

Thrown off by their celerity, the Hume tried to watch both of them at once; this meant he failed to notice Mjith until she was already halfway through her roundhouse, aimed impeccably at the center of his helm. The visor dented, and he fell over backward, howling with surprise and pain.

Delighted, the three darted into the shadow of a cedar tree about twenty-five meters away, and climbed up into it for cover. The Hume struggled to his feet, visibly dazed, and removed his ruined helmet.

F'ran had never seen what lay behind a Hume's helm; she watched with interest as the soldier turned round to look for them; when she saw his face, her heart caught in her throat.

_A'liith, how beautiful._

He had strange, pale skin, like the peachy center of a vanilla orchid, and ink-dark hair that skimmed his ears when he turned his head. What peculiar, small ears they were, like mushrooms; she wanted to touch them.

He looked up into the forest canopy, his strange blue eyes sharp and serious. F'ran felt her chest tighten with unexplained anxiety, but she quickly brushed it aside. There was no reason to be alarmed. She would not be seen . . . The tension in her chest returned in force, however, as the Hume's eyes flicked over the trees again and again. He was fascinating in the way he stood still like a stone, using his eyes rather than his nose to seek out his targets. She watched him turn slowly, his posture strangely heavy, as though he were tethered to the ground.

When another Hume approached him in a clatter of iron, he turned and spoke.

"Ghosts is what they are, I say. Three ambushed me not a minute ago and kicked my visor in, the fiends, and I'll be damned if I can find a one of them now."

F'ran understood not a word he said; regardless her heart jumped into her mouth. His voice was music.

Transfixed, F'ran crouched there in the cedar tree for a full five minutes, watching the two soldiers pace a tight circuit, scanning the trees. They were intent on finding F'ran and the others, stationed there in the shadows, but she didn't care. Even after his comrade left him to patrol alone, F'ran felt she could have gazed at the Hume all afternoon. Her body sang for him. She wanted to drop out of the trees and go to him, brush her lips against his vanilla-orchid face, and press her nose into his throat to better catch the scent of him.

But then a realization struck her, like a stone in the chest.

_I stare at this Bal'thjr, pining for him as though he were a bird in song, and all the while his kindred kill my sisters? Aii, sweet Tr'Liith, I am bewitched._

It was the only explanation. He knew she was there; he had cast some sort of silent magick in her direction, immobilizing her and her sisters, making them all confused and hungry for him.

Twisted, hateful, duplicitous hume . . .

She would kill him herself.

In a flash she dropped out of the cedar tree, landing in the ivy below, and darted toward the hume on silent feet. He turned, his clear bottomless eyes round with surprise, as she drew an arrow from her quiver.

"What in ninth hell…?"

His voice ran through F'ran like warm honey. She took aim point-blank at his pale beautiful throat, gave a hiss of hatred, and fired.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Relieved, she rolled him onto his back with her foot and waited for the spell he had cast on her to lift. His eyes still stared, radiant blue, from his face; she stared back into them, still transfixed by him even in death, and shivered when she realized she had slain something so perfect.

Confused, frightened, and nearly sick with desire, she spat into his beautiful face and cursed him aloud.

"_Bal'thjr!"_

From somewhere in the trees, Sjit called to her.

"_F'ran, tior an!"_

It was time to retreat into the village again.

"_Eih,_" she called, and fled into the thicket without looking back.


End file.
